


The Pith Of My Hand

by headcrashed



Category: No Fandom, Starbound (Video Game)
Genre: F/M, Original Character-centric
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-07
Updated: 2018-07-07
Packaged: 2019-06-06 13:40:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,896
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15195974
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/headcrashed/pseuds/headcrashed
Summary: Two thirty-something single parents, having a little stay in dinner date. One's an ancient god who rules your dreams, the other, a space cowboy made of star stuff, who captains a ship. Learning about your intergalactic date is easier over some Pinot Noir - and homemade casserole.





	The Pith Of My Hand

**Author's Note:**

> Kirk belongs to Milo and Art (sunrunnercrew/2o8 [for Milo] on tumblr) ! I just wrote a big gay story involving him and my incidentally NOT Starbound-related character, Dylan, who belongs to a work-in-progress novel. Ship's kinda based off a weird dream I had and kinda turned into "Ha ha what if they dated. No wait but what if they DID date." Rip me. Anyways. Just something I did to procrastinate on the second chapter of UTBS (which I AM....working on....slowly.)

             Dylan couldn’t imagine why it’d taken them so long. Not now, anyways, as they shuffled around their kitchen in sloppy haste, making sure their unassuming little abode was as clean and inviting as they could possibly make it. It had certainly been too long since they’d done anything like this, even if it was just mustering up a casserole and – _shoot_ , they’d forgotten to pick up some wine at the store. Was he even a wine drinker? Perhaps he didn’t even drink normal, “human” alcohol. Would wine even do anything to a Novakid? They’d seen some of their dreams on certain, wayward shards of the Somnific Atlas before. Novakid certainly lived up to their star-like appearances: they were as unpredictable as they were beautiful, raw and a rare treat for them to witness, and surely their tastes in alcohol would match them. Though, they’d made it a point not to pry into the dreams of people they were determined to learn about. That was the god in them thinking. The god in them solving, treating people like puzzles. No, they wanted to get to know Kirk through his terms; they wanted it to be _real_.

             Shit, they had it bad, didn’t they?

             The jingle of the doorbell jostled them out of their thoughts, followed by a few tiny hisses and curses as they slammed the knife down on their wooden cutting board and abandoned their half-chopped carrots, gliding through the airy halls in a flurry of hissed “shits” and “fucks” to reach the door and stop just short of flinging it open in their excitement.

             “Ah – Kirk! Hi…! Wow, you’re here a lil’ early…” Dylan trailed off, realizing they’d completely lost track of time. Kirk took this opportunity to bumble through a greeting, a gloved hand raising first in a half wave, then finding its way onto the back of his neck.

             “Howdy! Well, I, uh, didn’t wanna take the risk that I got the coordinates wrong an’ I’d be late…teleporter’s been a bit off-whack lately.” He froze, glow going stark-steady momentarily, realizing he may be intruding. “W – oh, well, shucks, I hope it ain’t a bother I’m early…”

             Dylan responded with equal grace. “Wh – no, no, you’re never a bother! Yeah, uh, you can just – come right in, there’s a shoe rack just to your right.”

             Once Kirk was in the light of the hallway and busy with the task of removing and shelving his boots, Dylan took a moment to look him over: he still wore the glove, for reasons they assumed were mandatory, but he’d dressed down his frontier gear in favor of some well-loved chinos, a very cowboy-esque leather jacket and…a tacky, Hawaiian-print button-down, illuminated faint pink against the exposed plasma of his neck. Was…that just a thing with Novakid? Just him? Either way, it was somehow incredibly endearing. He didn’t put on a front or something, whereas Dylan had frequently experienced wildly out-of-place attire, actions and demeanor just for who they were, so much so that they seemed to be bombarded with it the second the truth came out. Which reminded them…they hadn’t really told him, had they? Shit. Maybe they’d wait until after he’d gotten something to eat.

             “Oh – um – I’ll. I gotta get back to cookin’, sorry. Make yourself at home, though, it shouldn’t be too long,” Dylan muttered, shrinking back into the faint lavender of the hall before disappearing into the kitchen.

             As he looked around, Kirk seemed aware that something was a bit different about this place. But he’d been many places, seen many faces – and many guns pointed in his. This wasn’t so bad, comparatively: the halls seemed to be lit with something he couldn’t quite place, like a bunch of Novakid gathered in a dark room. Though it was nighttime, it appeared as though the house was just bathed in the first rays of sunrise and teeming with the same subtle waking energy. The house itself was sort of cottage-chic and just big enough for Dylan and their brother, Alexander, as well as perhaps one guest (usually Poplar.) It was a nice change of pace, to be some place unfamiliar but unthreatening, and just…linger in the otherness.

             “Shit – ow.”

             A tiny, ghostly groan from the kitchen prompted him to end his tour early, hurrying up the hall to peer in. The gift he’d brought – a bottle of Pinot Noir, on suggestion of Alexander after he butted his way into the awkward proposition of a date – was still clutched in his hand, but at the site of blood and a wounded Dylan it nearly slipped out of his fingers. For starters, despite the cut’s relatively superficial status, the skin around it seemed furious – like it was punishing Dylan, blackened and pulsing, seething iridescent teeth chattering around the edges in a language he had no desire to understand.

             “Dylan…?! Shoot – you alright? Here, lemme–” He was already on his way in, bottle on the table and newly freed hand outstretched to assist. Dylan is a wounded bird, fluttering politely back from his grasp while they clutch the wound in a paper towel.

             “N…It’s fine, no, I swear. I just, ah…” Of course. Now they must explain this entire thing to Kirk. They stared at his hand, still outstretched (though they could see a visible flinch in his corona when they’d been freaking out) then at his rather featureless face, upon which they could see the barest traces of a concerned expression. Sheepishly, they offer the injured hand to him, knowing full well in this condition they could not keep proper pressure on the wound. He took it without further ado, keeping a gentle but firm hold of the finger while deftly swiping a few more paper towels off the roll to wrap around the digit. It was harder to confirm the theory without him having eyes, but his focus was admirable, never once straying from the task at hand – and yet, didn’t make them nervous, until he asked the question they’d dreaded.

             “Can I ask what happened…?”

             Dylan grimaced, looking away from both the sight of their hand and Kirk struggling to keep it contained, but the pink glow cast from him upon their features seemed to weigh heavy on them.

             “…I got uh, a couple’a…ah. Immune and nervous system problems. I was hopin’ the flare up would’a tapered off by tonight, but I guess not. So, sometimes my joints are real stiff, and sometimes when I’m stressin’ out, I get lil’ finger spasms and stuff – I guess I couldn’t move my other finger in time while choppin’ those carrots.”

             They finally look back after finishing, only to notice a slight paling of his glow and instantly regret it. That, combined with the dawning realization that they’re now actually _holding hands_ (he’d instinctively cradled the injured hand in both of his – _god, he was really warm_ ,) was a heady storm of conflicting feelings that made Dylan want to either faint or crawl in a hole. God, what a way to start the night. Perhaps Kirk felt it, too, as he began to realize how he’d been cradling their hand as one might a wounded dove – and the glow around his face began to whiten in embarrassment.

             “Oh, shoot – I’m real sorry ‘bout all that. I, uh, didn’t mean to…I mean, if you want, I can finish up here while you, uh…you’ll be alright fixin’ that hand up all by yer lonesome?” His head turned to the pan and ingredients on the counter, as though desperate to find reprieve in some ground beef and spices. “You can uh, tell me more ‘bout it after you’re patched up. If ya want, anyways.”

             Dylan reluctantly slipped their hand from his grasp and into their own, silently savoring the last little traces of Novakid body warmth. “Really…? I…uh, yeah…shouldn’t take too long. Sorry again ‘bout all this.”

             He waved away their concern, already turned to the counter. “Ain’t a problem at all. You just take care.”

\--

             It wasn’t too long before Dylan returned, but still longer than they’d liked, finger swathed in gauze and taped neatly, the crisp white – thankfully – blotting out the pitch mess of blood and frantic skin sigils below. They didn’t heal quite as fast sometimes, but the bits of the Somnific Atlas should be able to do the rest soon enough. It just needed to be covered up for a while. They were used to it, even when down to one hand and shaking like a leaf (hence the extra time.) What they weren’t used to, and felt like they never might be, was the sight of Kirk C. Landon in their kitchen, having just finished up and placed the casserole in the oven, and now untying the apron he’d borrowed – they weren’t used to him anywhere around them, for that matter. In their space, being domestic and kind as he usually was. Was that…supposed to happen? That uncertainty and fluttering pit of feelings in their core? Weren’t most folks at their mental age getting married? Having kids? They both had kids, but neither was even the same species as their parent. Poplar had literally performed a religious ritual to summon Dylan. Was that sort of the start of it, that neither of their situations were anywhere near conventional? A space-faring, star-like cowboy of mysterious origins, and a timeless god of dreams and countless regrets? One could only hope this night wouldn’t get any less conventional.

             “Hey – hope y’all don’t mind I borrowed the apron,” he said with a sheepish smile. _Of course I don’t mind, especially with that doofy ass shirt, that’s the cutest shit I’ve ever seen and so are you,_ Dylan wanted to reply, but instead they merely smiled and shuffled in, immediately swallowing the urge to embarrass themselves with the sudden discovery of the wine on the table. Ah…it must have been on Alex’s suggestion; they were far too embarrassed and dizzy after asking him out, but they could recall a certain, bird-like, godly hand snatching Kirk by his shirt to pull him into a no-doubt humiliating conversation. It would be Alex, too, because of his preference for lighter reds, if he drank them at all. Whatever. At the rate this date was going, Dylan was probably going to finish it off after he left.

             “…Pinot Noir, eh,” they murmured, tracing the intricate label art with an equally decorated digit.

             Kirk perked up. “Ah, yeah. I…well. I ain’t really got a sophisticated palette, so to speak, so I jus’ went off what—”

             “—Alex told you,” Dylan finished. This dumbfounds Kirk, but only for a moment.

             “Y…yeah. You don’t sound surprised.”

             They palmed the bottle, featureless eyes heavy with exasperation. “Yeah, well, ‘s his favorite red. Actually, I tend to like it too, so…he ain’t all wrong.” _Tend to like it outside the wines dedicated in my glory and honor, probably only found out in some tiny Spanish coastal town,_ they wanted to add.

             Kirk looked relieved. “That’s good! I mean, uh, after you invitin’ me…” his corona flickers weakly before continuing, “…on a date, an’ makin’ dinner, it only felt right to come with a gift.”

             Dylan could only stare at the bandage wound tightly around their left thumb. “I might need’a pop open that gift a lil’ bit early.”

             “Aw, come on now—ain’t good to drink on an empty stomach.”

\--

             Dinner was probably as normal as it could get to Kirk, but at least a good chunk of the beginning wasn’t for Dylan. They knew well enough they had an insatiable curiosity, but this, combined with their budding feelings, turned it into a desire to learn about him _for_ him. For both of them. It was also just kind of neat the first time or so, watching everything he ate just burn up shortly thereafter. Now, sometime after (thankfully) opening the bottle of wine, sitting back on the couch, Dylan found the curiosity coming back around the end of the first glass, watching the glass approach his featureless face and the liquid slowly disappear to – somewhere. What about eating, or larger objects? What about his cigarettes, what did he hold them between?

_You’re wondering if he has lips._

             In an instant, something in Dylan’s head smoothed their sprawling thoughts into one coherent, humiliating thread. They silently began to plead for mercy, begging it to not refine it further, but their pleas fell on deaf ears.

_You’re wondering if he can kiss you._

             Oh. There it was. With just a little too much vigor, Dylan finished off the dregs left in their glass, so heavy-handed in the placing of the glass upon the table that Kirk even perked up a little bit.

             “You alright?”

             “Yeah, I’m—yeah, just a nasty last sip is all.”

             “Oof.”

             The groggy pause in conversation they’d been sharing began to seep back in, and with it, the first fingers of doubt and invasive thoughts beginning to prod around their mind again. To counteract it, Dylan decided to suddenly bring up an entirely different topic.

             “So – jus’ wonderin’. Uh, how did you and Peanut…how did you adopt ‘em? I mean, unless you somehow had a Floran—”

             “No, no, you’re right. Uh. They were a stowaway on my ship, actually. Couldn’t very well dump a youngin’ like that all by ‘emselves, either, so…” Kirk rubbed his neck slowly as he spoke, as though it’d recall the information sooner. Dylan only smiled sweetly, enamored by the idea.

             “I see…well, they’re a good kid. Glad you took ‘em. You- uh, make a good duo.”

             Hand still on his neck, Kirk bowed his head a little in embarrassment. “Aw, shucks. Thanks.” Suddenly, his head lifted, glow flickering like a candle. “Oh…how’d you…uh…what about Poplar?”

             Ah. Therein lies the fucking rub. It was Dylan’s turn for nervous habits, toying absently with one of their lip piercings as they pored over their unlikely origins. “Um…oh boy. I. Well. Poplar ain’t mine by blood. She actually has human parents, too. They’re real nice. She…uh. Summoned me and Alex in their chicken coop.”

             Kirk’s glow blinked, almost like he was incredulous. It was still a little difficult to read Novakid expressions, and the refractions on his face only offered so much in times of strong feelings…then again, they’d seen him go through just about every emotion he was capable of expressing when they’d met the crew, and Buck had insisted on firing the shotgun in his prosthetic – straight into the ceiling of the Sunrunner. Regardless, Dylan attempted to clarify.

             “I…um. Alex and I….we’re gods.”

             Again, he blinked, this time notably weaker than the last. Shit, they weren’t doing so good at this.

             “Dylan is a human name I was given, ‘s an even longer story. My real name’s Ylahn.” The name they uttered came out in a rasp of distinctly otherworldly origins, more like a knife sharpening than an actual utterance – a scrape that sent off silver sparks between them. “Ylahn, the god of dreams, art and ambitions. Everything that motivates people…and haunts ‘em…those are under my jurisdiction. But I’m, ah, not…worshipped very widely right now. Hence why Poplar had to summon me, even as my vessel. Vessels get chosen before birth for gods, accordin’ to certain criteria. The equivalent to our children, and spreaders of our gospel. I guess after havin’ a dream that I was in one night, she took matters into her own hands. Wanted to know what the fuck was up with that.”

             “…Wow.”

             “Yeah. Kid sure marches to the beat a’ her own drum.”

             Kirk stared first at his glass of wine, then at Dylan, wondering why the signs didn’t come together sooner. The apparition behind their head…obviously a halo. The moving tattoos along their upper body that produced images that seemed to reflect eerily well upon their current situation. The ineffable aura that surrounded them, drew people a little closer – or encouraged them to stop and ponder. But he’d seen and done so much in his years and had chalked it up to Novakid forgetfulness about a species he’d stumbled across before, or some hip new body mod the kids were doing in some dank part of the universe. Suddenly, refractions crinkled on his face like a furrowed brow.

             “Wait…so, I mean, that’s dandy, and I ain’t bothered by it—but does that mean you…picked me like you picked—"

             Dylan interrupted in horror, hair bristling, and pale face flushed a deep maroon. “No—ah, no! It’s no—I promise, none a’ this was weird god destiny shit…! I…” they bit their lip, turning their head slightly away from him before continuing. “I…you just. You’re a real sweet guy, and...you’re real easy to just get along with. You don’t put on some weird front or put a weird dynamic on between us, I can just. Hang out with you. And, well…I guess I gotta thing for wanderers. Comes with the territory. I genuinely…just like you, and wanted to learn more ‘bout you.”

             To prove it, Dylan held out their arms, pinching down on one of the dark spots of their tattoos – and, upon pulling their pinched fingers upwards, sprouting from it a tiny map. It glittered and wavered, like a mirage, or something not quite in reality. “Look—these tattoos map out everyone’s dreams. Their hopes. The fruits of them. I ain’t looked at a single one of yours so far. You could name the start of your biggest ambition off right now and I wouldn’t know a damn thing ‘bout finishing it.”  The mirage map suddenly vanished, their arms dropping in defeat to their sides as they quietly continue. “I just wanted to learn about you, like people do.”

             Regardless of fluency in Novakid expressions, it was clear what the bright white light seeping into his plasma and dusting his cheeks meant. Even if Dylan hadn’t picked him through some weird ritual, for a moment, the weight of somehow being interesting and worthy enough to anyone, let alone a god – out of every being in the universe – was unbearable. After everything. After everyone. It felt like it knocked the wind out of him – and, apparently, the words. “Ah—well. _Ahem_. I mean…gosh, sorry, I guess I just wasn’t expectin’ that. I…feel the same way, though.” He paused, thoughtfully, once more. “And…I promise this god thing ain’t change that.”

\--

             Such a concept seemed to comfort them, and through about one more glass’s worth of conversation, it really seemed to hold up. They were able to just…talk. To learn a little about how the two of them were up until the point they met, about Kirk’s crew, about Alex and Poplar, and really flesh the two of them out in each other’s head. More than just a space-faring cowboy, made of starlight and mysteriously born a captain, and a wandering god, whom hopes and the arts that sprouted from them either flourished or withered under the watchful eye of. No, now they were two people, with quirks, and a weird mark on this cheek or that arm, and favorite colors and movies, and a mix of memories and faces and laughs and tears. Two people sat now, side by side, loosened by wine, on a rather comfy couch and in a rather comfy silence, save for the music drifting softly out of the speakers by the tv. Kirk stares at the dregs of his second glass, then across the living room, letting his gaze hang lazily over the details of it – until it lands on a picture of a young, dark-haired, but familiar young woman, beaming as she stands hand-in-hand with another in cheesy formal wear.

             “…Whassat?”

             Perking up, Dylan’s gaze followed a teetering path until it finally landed on the object of interest. Once there, they immediately let out an ungraceful snort, slapping a hand over their nose and mouth in barely sincere modesty.

             “ _Snrk_ —oh, shit. That’s. Yeah. That’s my senior prom picture.”

             “…Senior prom?”

             “Oh, y’know, ‘s like—uhm. On earth, when you’re…well, at least try’na be human or do what they’re doin’, and you’re in high school, which is like, your teenage years, you regularly have dances durin’ your school year. And they’re _awful_. Wonderfully awful. You just drink punch and sneak yer mom’s booze in a little flask in to liven things up, if yer like me and my friend there. And you, yeah, uh, you dance. _Badly_. Either with people, or just flailin’ like no one’s watchin’. Prom’s like, I dunno, the big one when you’re in your last year. You gotta ask someone to go with you as a date or yer a loser. So, we went as friends.”

             “Sounds like a hog-killin’ time.” Now it was Kirk’s turn to make a weird noise – most likely a Novakid equivalent of a snort, more like a burst of static.

             “Oh, that ain’t even the best part.” They waved a hand in some vague display of excitement. “We ain’t even covered slow dancin’. Where the DJ puts on a slow song, and you gotta either ask someone you actually crush on to dance all slow, holdin’ each other in a school appropriate way and at an appropriate distance, or you find some friend to do it.”

             A refraction arced across his face, like an eyebrow raised inquisitively. “What if you ain’t got no one?”

             Dylan gave a sheepish smile. “Then you go sit on the side, like a dorkass loser.”

             Kirk returned the smile. “Reckon you’re lookin’ at one of those dorkasses.”

             “What? Hell naw. I’d ask the hell outta you.”

             “Thanks.”

             “No, no, really! Heck, we should just—hang on, stand up.” Dylan suddenly stumbled to their feet, shuffling unsteadily towards the phone sitting on the TV stand that they’d connected to the speakers during a discussion about music tastes. As they began to flick through their library, Kirk himself rose to his feet, approaching Dylan wearily – before they suddenly spun around, having selected what they believed to be the perfect first song for the mood.

             “Okay, now put your hands on my waist.” Without a trace of qualm, Dylan placed their hands on his shoulders as the first soft drum beats floated through the speakers. Kirk was dumbfounded – to say nothing of the intense heat of embarrassment roiling through his already burning plasma – but obliged, tentatively placing his hands on their waist.

             “O…kay. What now?”

             “Now we just kinda…sway to the music. Ain’t much else to it.”

             As though on their cue, the music began to coax the two of them into a gentle sway, the softly uttered lyrics swaddling them in a comfortable, dim haze.

             “Seems kinda like it’d make you sleepy…”

             “Yeah, well, not when you’re a hormonal teen, and you’re in the middle of takin’ pills to switch puberties.”

             Kirk let out another static snort. “So, you dance like that with yer friend?”

             Dylan’s response was a little meeker than the last. “…Yeah. Just as friends.”

             Perhaps as part of the strange intuition Novakid seemed to possess, Kirk picked up on the wisp of melancholy in their voice. “…Sorry ‘bout that. I ain’t mean to—”

             “No, no, ‘s fine. I had to go through that experience somehow.” They verbally shrug it away, instead opting to lean down and slide their arms around his neck, leaning the weight of their head against his forehead. It was a collapsing action, one they took instinctively, perhaps to fill the void the memory had left like a vacuum. A few barely audible creaks emitted from where Kirk’s brand ought to be, perhaps the closest Dylan would hear to aimless stutters of bashfulness, but they fade out in a moment. It was…pleasant, and overwhelming. It made him appreciate the looming aura that enveloped him now like wings, like wool. Some drowsy, wine-dark dream, dangling over the two of them as one of the Red Hot Chili Pepper’s softer songs serenaded their every rock and sway.

_“Porcelain,_

_Do you carry the moon in your womb,_

_Someone said that you're fading too soon,”_

             Ah…they were _definitely_ tipsy. The room was a bit off, as though the two of them were slightly removed from it. Just them, Dylan, and Kirk, and the warmth of his shell on their forehead, his corona billowing out like a bright pink wind in a Novakid imitation of bangs. They stared, heavy-lidded, into where his eyes should be, watching the aimless swirl of pink and neon, tracing patterns that may or may not actually be there. God, he was so warm, and so comfortable to hold onto, and so cute and close to their face—oh no. Now they were back on _that_ line of thought again.

             “Hey…Kirk?” Uh oh. Were they about to act on a whim?

             “…Yeah?”

             “Where’s your, uh…” Meekly, they turned their face slightly to the side, swallowing hard. It seemed like it took ages before they were able to turn back, a moonstruck look on their wine-flushed features. “How do Novakid kiss?”

             More, forceful electric stutters. Oh god. Oh stars. This was actually happening. “I…well. Uh. I. Um. Are you…askin’ me to show you…?”

             “I mean…yeah.”

             It was really happening now. The stutters seem to fade off as Kirk reached up, taking Dylan’s chin in one, gloved hand (thank whoever was out there that he couldn’t sweat.) Inching closer, a small split in his corona forms – much like the one he’d used like a mouth for eating. “Well…” he mutters, closing in the gap until their faces were just a breath away, “goes a lil’ like this…” There was a hair’s breadth of a period between when he finished speaking and when their lips were suddenly enveloped in a warm, semi-solid embrace, like they’d dipped them into half-cooled glass. It was far too short a period for Dylan to brace for this new experience. This was…enveloping, and featureless, but distinct all at the same time. They couldn’t tell what their lips were slipping around, grasping gentle as a petal for some sort of reprieve in a pool of heat and roiling starlight. This…was precisely what had motivated them to live among mortals in the first place, this sort of warm, clumsy yearning. To understand and feel this sort of dream was their downfall.

             Their parting felt like waking up, leaving their lips half-open and eyes droopy, watching drowsily as the split sealed up along the front of his face and his fingers painstakingly uncurl and release their chin, before the two finally untangled themselves. Dylan struggled to verbalize something, anything in response, their first instinct to reach up and touch their pitch-lined lips with two of their fingers as if what they just experienced wasn’t real.

             “…Wow.”

             It’s sort of a cross between a word and a sigh, colored in songs of angels and stains of berry’s past. Dylan couldn’t see a need to be coherent or sound human while still stuck in the warmth of their dream. Kirk scratched thoughtfully at his face, both bashful about the kiss and wrestling with the great task of coherent speech after locking lips with an actual god.

             “Yeah, I…uh. Um. That was…I’ve had a real nice time.”

             Dylan’s only immediate response was to giggle like a schoolgirl with a crush, toeing coyly at the intricate patterns of their living room rug with a stocking-clad foot. After a shoddy attempt to wave off their antics, they finally spoke up. “Sorry—sorry, ‘m just a lil’— _whew._ ‘S been awhile. Th—uh, thank you. I’m really glad we did this.”

             “Yeah, for sure—ah.” A message from aboard the ship lights up his phone, which he scans over wearily. “…Eesh. I don’t wanna rush outta here all suddenly, but, you ‘member that hole Buck’s stupid ass fired into the ship? Yeah—”

             “—Oh shit.”

             “Yeah.”

             Dylan sucked a breath in between their teeth, squinting as if to shield their eyes from the flash of buckshot fired from a stupid blue twunk’s leg all over again. “Well—I mean, thank you again for the wine and, uh. Helpin’ me with dinner after I almost hacked my thumb off. We…definitely should do this again sometime.”

             “Of course! Just holler if you need me. Um…” Kirk motioned for Dylan to lean down, and so they obliged, curious – only for him to plant a short, sweet peck on their lips. “Goodnight.”

             Before they had time to react – or for him to freak out about what he’d just done for the second time – he’d already pressed the button to beam back to the ship, vanishing shortly thereafter in a flash of blinding light. Dylan stood, momentarily, savoring the last, lingering bits of heat before they stumbled back to the couch, collapsing in a pile of woolen drapery and wine-soaked giggling. Ah, they’d done it. They’d done it. They had a date where they’d danced and bled and kissed and all of it went well – wonderfully, in fact. Perhaps it wasn’t normal for thirty-somethings, and perhaps it was just the wine talking, but they were looking forward to a whole lot more “not normal” in the future.


End file.
